The Unavoidable
by fallingoffhighplaces
Summary: Sherlock Holmes shows up in the foreign city of London broke, homeless, with a questionable past, and tries to escape his former haunts. Aiding him in starting afresh is an stranger named Molly Hooper and a discharged soldier named John Watson. However, history has a funny tendency of always catching up...
1. Complications and Introductions

Sherlock Holmes prides himself on his usual ability to appear that he belonged and to avoid any unnecessary attention from nosy people, but that skill was being heavily tested now as he walked through the streets of London.

With practically nothing except the clothes on his back and a few pounds in the pocket of his trenchcoat, he lacked the aura that everyone else had about them. The aura of knowing your home and destination. Sure, he has an address written on a sheet of paper that Irene Adler, a long-time associate had given him, but the place is completely foreign. 221C Baker Street. Someone lives there by the name of Molly Hooper who may help him.

Irene had told him the address with her last breaths as blood was pouring out of her wound. She had said it was a chance for his to start fresh.

She didn't elaborate on that. She didn't have time to.

Sherlock was wandering aimlessly, not knowing the layout of the city, and he had tried asking for directions from a few people on the sidewalk, but they pushed past without another word, reminding him again how irksome people are

The third person he attempted to ask was a homeless man he spotted across the road– disheveled hair, month-old clothes, and a thin, gaunt face, "Do you know the location of a certain 221C Baker Street?"

"I might, with a little extra incentive," the old man winked and rubbed two fingers together, signaling for money.

Disgusted but impatient, Sherlock pressed a few of his precious coins into the hands of the beggar as he listened to the route, "Go straight here, then make a left, and another one on the next road. Walk for two blocks down and turn right. Can I ask who you're looking for?"

"No," he retorted and stalked off.

The whole journey there took less than ten minutes, but when he arrived at the bottom of the building, he was a bit stumped. The door to the building was locked, and he had no equipment to pick it with. Should he buzz in?

He decided to go with the latter and pressed the button for the flat. A female voice answered, "Hello?

Who is this?"

Sherlock ignored the question and asked one of his own, "Is this Molly Hooper?"

"Um, no, she's at work right now. Night shift, and won't be back until next morning. This is her flatmate, Mary Morstan. Who's asking?"

Sherlock ended the intercom call and walked off without another word. He'll come back later.

Had a stranger seen the events of today, he would probably describe Sherlock Holmes as a person with a fetish for cutting people off and someone who has a dire need to have the upper hand in conversations.

And they would be absolutely right. Sherlock is a person who would spit in the face of Death and demand to go back.

Victories are what he lives for, even when he is stuck at a rock-bottom position as this, he manages little victories here and there.

He fished out the little money he has left and bought a hot cup of coffee and observed the city and its people. Just sitting and observing, what he does best, and after a brief few minutes, he discovered that the café's owner was having an affair with one of the waitresses, and that the stray puppy wandering nearby has been kicked that morning and was starving.

Ignoring the logical part of his brain that shouted "no!", he used the rest of his cash on a ham sandwich and threw the meat at the animal.

The dog, who was a small, malnourished Jack Russell terrier, scrambled forth and gobbled it up with cautious eyes. Upon finishing the food, it crept towards Sherlock as if asking for more.

Finishing up the last of his coffee, the man stood up and started walking off briskly, but the dog padded along, just out of reach, and whimpered.

"I do not possess any more food for your consumption," Sherlock muttered irritably and tried to wave the pup off.

The dog cocked its head, confused.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued walking along the streets with no end point in mind, just to pass time.

With a yip, the dog caught up to him, walking right behind his heels.

"Seems like I've got an unwanted shadow," he murmured to himself. He has never cared much, in his life, for animals and pets. They take up too much valuable time and demanded attention that could be used for a much more worthwhile subject.

It was now late into the night, and a chill was settling into the air. Cars became more and more scarce on the streets, and lights inside rooms were turning off, signaling sleeping homeowners.

If only they knew how easy it was to break in, without them realizing, and steal anything they desired. Or even to commit an act of homicide.

It would be very simple to break in and steal something... wouldn't it?

But still, he was hesitant. It wasn't, for Sherlock, a matter of morals and ethics, but rather, a question of his dignity. Would he let himself sink to the level of a common burglar?

The dog barked, shivering slightly, and someone in another building shouted out in a particularly enraged tone, "Shut your fucking dog up or I'm going to call the police!"

The dog barked a second time, its thin body shivering in the cold weather, and Sherlock attempted to silence it, "Be quiet, Dog." He reached down and awkwardly patted its small head.

It fell silent, but interrupted time to time with a whine, signaling his still-present hunger, and so it was then that Sherlock decided to break into a flat and take some money for food (both human and animal) and a blanket for the puppy.

After meandering through the neighborhood, he narrowed in on a small, first floor flat that conveniently left its windows open. So instead of breaking and entering, it was just entering.

It was inhabited, from the silhouette and voice, by a single man around Sherlock's own age, and from the lack of light, is currently asleep.

"Stay, Dog," Sherlock commanded and soundlessly stepped to the window and pulled himself in through the opening.

He was in.

The living room was very simple and minimal, with only a coffee table, sofa, and a small telly. He looked around for where the man might have stored his spare funds.

A feeling of self-hatred suddenly bubbled up in his throat and poisoned his mind palace. Look at him! Sherlock Holmes– reduced to common thieving! His great mind put to waste. It was despicable. He shook off the feeling for now, as it is only detrimental to the search, and continued looking around.

He spotted a wallet on the couch and picked it up. there was an ID in there with the name John Watson printed on, along with several pounds in its folds. He pocketed the money and replaced the wallet back to where it was.

There was a small click as the lights flicked on the room, and the flat's owner, John, stared, bewildered, at the strange, unfamiliar man.

"John Watson, I presume?" Sherlock said.

"Who the _hell_ are you?!" The man shouted. He was relatively short with dishwater blond hair and straight posture.

"A passerby who needed funds," he replied calmly. "I assumed that you were asleep, but I guess your PTSD made sure that you are to be a light sleeper. Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"What? How did you know about the PTSD and Afghanistan?!"

"No need to shout, it'll wake the neighbors."

"Screw the neighbors! Get out of my flat or I'm going to call the police!" John threatened and tried to look as menacing as possible.

"Can't call the police if you don't have a phone," Sherlock held up John's cell in his hands. "Shouldn't leave it lying around for anyone to pick up."

"I– I... you little–" John sputtered and stepped forward, fists clenched.

"No landline, either, so no other way to communicate. And I suggest you to refrain from physically assaulting me, as for the fact that I am much taller and am very trained in the martial arts, although I'm sure you are, too. Military trained, I presume. But if you can't seem to spare some money, then I must demand you to let me stay here for the night."

"You want to sleep... here? In the flat of a _complete_ stranger? Who are you, in the first place?"

"Let me correct you, I do not desire to sleep here, it is merely for the sake of my dog. And the name's Sherlock Holmes," he went to peek out the window. Dog was still there. "You aren't allergic, are you?"

"What? I never agreed to let you sleep here."

"Oh, please," Sherlock said and went to open the front door and whistled for Dog. "A good Samaritan soldier like you can't turn down someone in need like me."

The terrier plodded through the front door, drawn by the warmth and the smells of the flat.

"Fine," John scowled. "You can sleep on the couch. And your dog can just sleep on the floor if he wants. You should feed him more, he looks too thin to be healthy. I might have some bacon in the fridge to feed him."

"It's a she," Sherlock corrected. "And you should also really stop leaving your windows open throughout the night. It's really not advised."

"It's not _everyday_ that a crazy psychopath barges in my flat and demands to sleep here."

"I prefer the term 'high-functioning sociopath', not psychopath," Sherlock smirked. "And don't worry, I'm sure we'll be great friends."

"You are getting a serious interrogation in the morning," John frowned and then stifled a yawn. "I'm

going back to sleep."

Dog woofed quietly and curled up into a ball besides the couch.

**A/N: Ah, thank you for reading this. I've always been interested in a situation where Sherlock is at the bottom of society and how he'd act to try to change that. **

**I do have to note that this fanfic will not be Johnlock, although they will become great friends. It will, in the future, become Sherlolly, so I hope that won't be to your disliking. **

**Reviews are always welcome! **


	2. Another Intrusion

Dreams are curious things, like little films that broadcasts in your mind that you immediately forget when you step outside the theater.

For a lucky few, they hold the special ability to shape their dreams whichever way they please, but unfortunately, Sherlock is not one of those people. So the dreams came torrentially with no system of restraint.

There was one of Mummy and his father, sitting quietly, sipping tea when a rain of bullets rained through the windows as Sherlock relived the past in his sleep.

An inexorable part of his head stopped him from waking up of his own free will, but that was quenched by the feeling of wet slobber on his face.

"Dog..." Sherlock groaned and tried to push her off his chest.

She gave him one last lick on the nose and bounced onto the floor. Rapid tail-wagging ensued.

"Mr. Watson has fed you, I see," Sherlock observed.

John walked into the living room, holding a plate of eggs, "_Dr._ Watson, if you please. I was an army doctor, but pray tell, how did you know about the Afghanistan thing? Please enlighten me."

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. You're a very light sleeper, insinuating PTSD, and that suggests a traumatic trigger of some sorts, and the disorder is most commonly found amongst soldiers. All this leads to one question, which was were you serviced in Afghanistan or Iraq, and you answered that yourself."

"That is... amazing–"

"Hardly."

"– But it doesn't explain who you are and why you're homeless, no offense, but you seem like the kind of person who used to wealth and apparently no sense of boundaries," John continued.

"Very nice deduction on your part."

"And the dog. I've seen it around. Also it doesn't explain why you're looking for a certain Molly Hooper," he pulled out the slip of paper from his pocket that Sherlock originally had with Molly's address.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "So you did a little digging on your own? Impressive. Are you familiar with Miss Hooper?"

"I've seen her around St. Bart's, the hospital. I'm currently working at the surgery there, and you are avoiding the question."

"As I have stated in the previous night, I am Sherlock Holmes. As for why, you can say that I need to leave some unfortunate events behind, and someone who is able to help me in my endeavours is a woman by the name of Molly Hooper," Sherlock's face remained neutral. "Nothing that concerns you or that you need to be worried about."

"What are you leaving behind?" John inquired.

"As I've said, nothing that concerns you."

"You're _in my flat_, so tell me, how does that not concern me?"

"And I am currently leaving your flat. I appreciate the hospitality, but I have other matters to attend to, namely, speaking with Miss Hooper. Dog, come," Sherlock whistled and the terrier padded over. "You should really eat your eggs, they're getting cold."

John glanced down at his plate then looked up, slightly pissed off, "How about let's summarize the situation: a stranger, who is apparently homeless, breaks into my flat–"

"_Enters_ your flat," Sherlock corrected. "I never broke in."

"– with a dog and sleeps here–"

"Which you condoned."

"– and is going to leave without another explanation, believing that I am going to be perfectly satisfied without another word," John finished.

"Problem?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" John threw up his hands. "Okay, okay, you don't want to disclose your past or whatever, that's fine, maybe you're running away from drug dealers or assassins or something, but don't get Molly involved in your... shenanigans. Or Mary, her flatmate. Don't get them involved."

"As antagonistic and intimidating as I might look, rest assured that my intention is not to wish harm upon Miss Hooper or her flatmate," He smirked. "But I do appreciate your attitude."

John narrowed his eyes.

Sherlock bent down and picked up Dog, "Don't worry. From what I've heard of Miss Hooper, she is perfectly able of handling herself in situations."

"From what you've heard of her? You don't even know her, judging from the fact that you needed someone to write down the address. Who did you hear it from?"

Backtracking, Sherlock said, "You know what? Forget what I said. I am going to leave now."

"Wait–"

"Dog needs to relieve herself," he finished, gave a false smile at John, and stepped outside. On the sidewalk, he set the terrier down on the ground, and she did, in fact, pee against a fire hydrant. Sherlock glanced back and sure enough, John was still glaring at the pair of them with a pondering expression through the window.

Dog barked at him.

"We must take our exits from his life," Sherlock gestured and turned to the direction that would get them to Baker Street the fastest. "And intrude onto someone else's."

Dog followed after him but with a slight air of wistfulness around her.

After approximately five minutes and three blocks over, they stood at the bottom of 221 Baker Street. For the second time, he pressed the buzzer to the building, except this time, nobody answered. His mouth twitched in annoyance but reached into his left pocket and came up with two paper clips.

"Dr. Watson is not the only one who did some digging," Sherlock told Dog and got to work.

* * *

Molly was arriving home after an exhausting and rather irritating night at work. There was a dead body found and brought to the morgue entering its first stages of decomposition with quite a few interesting species of insects.

Let's just say it wasn't particularly pleasant.

She got out of her cab, paid her fare, and briskly walked into 221 Baker Street. A nice, hot shower would be greatly welcomed by her right about now.

Strange... her flat door wasn't locked. Maybe Mary forgot to but _why is there a dog in the living room and where is her cat who is always on the couch and instead of the cat why is there a strange man with rather great hair sitting in his place_?!

"You weren't home and it would be quite boring to just wait outside," the man on the couch said.

"I– I have pepper spray!" Molly fumbled in her purse and whipped out a small can. She held it up warningly. "Stay where you are!"

"Irene Adler sent me," Sherlock stood up and gazed at her intently. "She says this is payment for her 'getting you out' as she phrased it."

Molly lowered her pepper spray, "Where is she?"

"She's dead," Sherlock said bluntly without sugarcoating anything. "And she said that you owed her, a debt of some sort."

"How do you know her?" Molly narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. "And where the hell is my cat?"

"She has a certain partnership with my father."

"Partnership? You are aware of her profession, right?"

"Not that sort of partnership," Sherlock shook his head. "She is semi-employed by my father. They are... friends to a certain extent."

"Where is your father? What does he do?"

"He is also dead."

"I am sensing a pattern here... and where did you put Toby?! He doesn't like dogs."

'Your cat is perfectly fine, rest assured. I just set him down in the bathroom and closed the door. Him and Dog here were having rather unnecessary spats with each other, disturbing my train of thought," Sherlock pointed out the room.

Molly's eyes widened, "You locked up my cat?! Why the didn't you just leave your dog outside!? This is Toby's home, you're going to make him _really_ pissed." After tossing an evil look at him, she ran towards the bathroom and returned a few moments later with a very disgruntled and murderous-looking tabby. It shot daggers at Sherlock but managed to restrain itself and remained in its mistress's arms, hissing.

"Forget your feline, Irene says you can help me," Sherlock stated. "All I need is a–"

"Wait, wait, wait," Molly interrupted. "If you want my help, you have to tell me what happened to Irene– to your father, too, for that matter. From what I could see so far, being around you is a security risk and I want to know what I'm getting into."

He was skeptical, "And on what grounds are you deemed trustworthy? Your past appears just as questionable, seeing that you've had association with Miss Adler yourself. How can I know you're not going to blab to someone?"

"Okay, okay," Molly held up her hands. "Let's compromise. You tell me your situation, and in turn, I will tell you about mine. The relevant parts, anyway. Then we'll discuss what help you need."

"Why should I be the first to spill my past?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Because I have the upper hand here. You're in _my _flat, asking for _my_ help, and you locked up _my_ cat! I think I have a right to know first about what I'm dealing with."

"The help part you are required to give, as payment to a dead woman whom you owe a favour to," Sherlock countered.

"I'm not required to do anything. Look, Irene is not even my friend. She just helped me once a long while ago to get out of a complicated situation," Molly opposed. "And this is just a waste of time. I'm giving you two options: either tell me how they died and what happened, then I'll help you, or else get out of my flat and don't come back."

Sherlock broke out in a smile, "You passed my first test, Miss Hooper, with flying colours. Congratulations. So ultimately, I've decided that you are, in fact, trustworthy enough to be confessed to. Well, it's all for my benefit, really, so I shouldn't be complaining."

Molly sat down stiffly into a chair, refused to be impressed, "I never caught your name, yet you seem to be so familiar with mine."

"It's Sherlock Holmes, and would you mind if I check for bugs and hidden cameras? One does learn to be especially careful after certain experiences."

**A/N: Thanks for reading chapter two, I appreciate the reviews, they are very helpful. So, we'll finally learn about Sherlock's (and Molly's) past past in the next update, stay tuned. :)  
Stay calm and keep deducing. **


	3. A Talk Over Tea

After examining the entire flat (and finding no trace of any type of spying device), Sherlock relaxed on the couch clutching a cup of tea.

"Spill," Molly commanded, awaiting his story.

"Have you, by any means, heard of the names Siger and Violet Holmes?" He took a sip.

"No."

"Good. Well, they are– were– my parents. They were also the center, or the aristocrats, you could say, of the entire organized crime system in the area of Birmingham. You don't seem very surprised or scared of the notion," he remarked.

"Well, it's not too surprising and you don't seem very frightening," Molly crossed her legs. "I've met people like you before."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and continued, "I didn't necessarily agree with all their doings in the business–"

"Were they too... cruel?" She asked.

"The opposite. They were too kind," he scowled, "for someone in their profession. But thankfully, my elder brother was present to keep their sentiments in check. They tried to follow the idea of 'fairness' and 'strict and just'. That might work for a democracy, but they're trying to create order in a system of anarchy and corruption. It doesn't work."

"So I'm guessing not a good relationship with your family."

"The Holmes family does not have a relationship in the normal sense. It's more of a 'we put up with each other for personal and financial gains'."

"Oh, the holiday dinners must be tense, huh?" Molly tried to suppress a grin.

"I try my best to forget those insufferable occasions," he grimaced at the recollection.

"But please, continue."

"Well, as you know, Birmingham is second only to London in terms of population size in England, so many advances were made from rivals towards the territory. They all want to be in charge and knock us off our high horses. They never were too much trouble, until about a year ago. Then it turned almost Shakespearean, not unlike the feud between the Capulets and Montagues in _Romeo and Juliet_."

"Ah, and let me guess," Molly said. "Things went overboard, just like in the play, and your parents were killed in the line of fire?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Not quite. It's not as simple as that. My brother, Mycroft Holmes, hired a sniper, one of the best, but something went wrong and the man killed the wrong person. Someone by the name of Sebastian Moran."

"That's who it was," Molly muttered under her breath.

"Pardon me?"

"Nothing. I mean, I will tell you after you're done. Go on."

"Yes, well, the retaliation from the other side was carried out much, much later– four and a half weeks, in fact. During that time, there were no traces of them at all in the city and so we all thought they left the city."

"So you let down your guard, which was the most cataclysmic thing you could've done," Molly supplied.

"Actually, quite ironically, I was the only who who didn't let my guard down. Everybody else in my family had their heads up in the cloud and thought that they were infallible. They all had the silly notion in their heads that they're somehow indestructible and that everyone else should be naturally afraid of the Holmes empire," Sherlock frowned and set his tea cup down on the table.

Glancing at his empty cup, Molly stood up and asked, "More tea?" She sat back down after he refused the offer.

Sherlock continued, "And the rest isn't hard to guess. I left the city and headed for London after escaping in the middle of a shoot-out, barely unscathed, and had instructions from Irene Adler, who was caught in the middle of it all, that you would be able to help me. I did not have adequate time to collect any necessities and ID."

Molly shrugged, "You can always create false new ones. That is one thing I've learned in my lifetime. So let me summarize the situation you're stuck in: Your parents are dead and you're trying to evade their killers. Sounds a bit like The Lion King."

"Do you find my current predicament amusing?"

"No, no," Molly denied. "Just slightly bizarre that this is all happening in real life. But then again, I shouldn't be the one talking."

"I suppose this is where your story comes in. What is your history? How did you the acquaintance of Irene Adler?" Sherlock pressed his fingertips together.

"It's slightly complicated."

"I think someone at my level of intelligence can follow."

"Sebastian Moran was my older brother," she said bluntly.

Silence.

She continued after a lengthy pause, "I suppose that I should go back more. My dad died when I was young and my mum was rather aloof afterwards, so Seb and I looked after each other. He then later got with someone by the name of Jim Moriarty, and he was– a genius to say the lease."

"Moriarty..." Sherlock tasted the word.

"Yes, and I've only met him a few times, but the man was charismatic and so dark," Toby the cat purred in Molly's lap as she stroked him.

"Dark?"

Lowering her voice, Molly said, "He told Seb that he had murdered a boy by the name of Carl Powers while he was away at boarding school when he was young. Something about using Botulinum?"

"There was an article on that. The police deemed it as an accident, but something seemed not quite right. His shoes had been missing..."

"Well, and Moriarty was very manipulative of people and he made it big. Very big. Before long, he was in charge of a great many people with connections in many places. Basically, he's created a web. His own web of crime, similar to your parents."

"And you were involved with that," Sherlock made an assumption. "But you were not compliant with that life so you wanted out, and Irene was the one who helped you."

"Good guess, but you left out some parts. Seb was Jim Moriarty's right-hand man, and I worked under my brother, basically. I had a knack for convincing people to accept deals and business dealings."

"You liked it," Sherlock accused. "I can see it in your eyes."

"Yes, for a while" she admitted. "I thought it wasn't a bad life, you know? Then Seb was killed. By the sniper."

"I'm sorry about that."

"Not your fault," she said. "And I finally realized that I was veiled from all the bad parts of it all. Seb made Moriarty ensure my safety. He had protected me from all the horrible parts of the life. I was deluded. I finally accepted that Moriarty was a madman with no conscience. He had a man _killed_ just because he wasn't able to pay back his debt within the allotted three days! Brutally stabbed to death!"

"The man should have made sure that he knew who he was dealing with. He should have made sure he knew the consequences had he broken his promise. That's how this business works."

"And it's horrible," Molly blinked rapidly, preventing herself from tearing up.

"That is subjective," Sherlock noted.

"I did try to leave that life afterwards, but Moriarty wouldn't let me. He said that I'd be betraying Seb. He's the one who ordered the death of your parents, too. I tried to convince him to call it off because I didn't want any more people to die, but he just ignored me."

"And is this where Irene comes into play?"

"Yes," Molly confirmed. "Over the course of years working under Moriarty, I've made a few connections of my own, and one of them, Ms. Adler."

"What did she do for you? She is a dominatrix after all. What could she have done?"

"Well, she's a dominatrix with a variety of clients, and some of them came into handy. I faked my own death."

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise and he gave a half-smile, "I'm impressed. Very bold of you."

There was no more talking for several minutes afterwards as they both took some time to take in and analyze each other's stories. Sherlock stood up abruptly.

"I require a laptop or a computer of some sort. By the way do you own a colour printer?" He asked.

"For creating your new ID?"

"Yes, and I'd need it if I apply for a new job, per se, and I can also attach some fake qualifications on my resume if I need to," He realized that Molly was staring at him intently. "Is something bothering you?"

"You seems so, um, nonchalant about it all," she shook her head. "Your parents were killed and you're so calm! This isn't... natural, no matter how close you were to each other, it's not."

"I have been taught, from a young age, that emotions often hinder critical thinking. Ah, there is the laptop," Sherlock exclaimed and snatched the computer from a table beside the window. "The password I'm guessing is 'Toby'? And judging from your expressions I am correct. Don't worry, you can always change it later." He started his rapid key-tapping.

* * *

Sherlock was still working after Molly made herself lunch, ate it, and washed the dishes. She had offered some food to him, but he said that it'll only make him sluggish.

"What do you do in St. Bart's and what did you put down as your qualifications?" He called out.

"I work in the morgue and take care of the dead bodies that are brought in. Why? Are you going to apply for a job at Bart's? Please don't."

"Why not? It is within a perfectly reasonable distance from Baker Street and it would pay very nicely if I receive a respectable position, which is very plausible judging from my level of competency as indicated by my very illustrious resume."

"It's just odd and what do you mean 'distance from Baker Street'?" Molly scowled. "You're not staying here in my flat."

"Where else can I go at the current moment? And I am pretty confident that this constitutes as 'helping me' in Irene's book."

"I– okay, fine, but you're taking the couch," Molly gave him a pissed off stare. "And you're leaving the SECOND you accumulate enough money to get your own flat, and– oh, shit, I have to explain this somehow to Mary without telling her about, um, the truth. She, fortunately, thinks that I am a perfectly normal person working in a morgue."

"Tell her that I'm a long-lost friend who is scouting out the city of London because I am considering of taking residence here. That covers everything."

"Great."

**A/N: So, they had a little heart-to-heart with each other. :) We'll be seeing more of John next chapter, so stay tuned for that.**

**Reviews would be very helpful and I always love reading them! **


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